JOSEPH HALL, BISHOP OF NORWICH.
Author of various learned and pious Works in prose; also of Virgidemiarum, or a series of Satires, and other small essays, in
LORD, what am I? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing!
What is my life? A dream, a daily dying!
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasie clothing!
What is my time? A minute ever flying:
My time, my flesh, my life, and I;
What are we, Lord, but vanity?
Where am I, Lord? downe in a vale of death:
What is my trade? sin, my dear God offending;
My sport sin too, my stay a puffe of breath:
What end of sin? Hell's horrour never ending :
My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place
Help to make up my dolefull case.
Lord, what art thou? pure life, power, beauty, bliss:
Where dwell'st thou? up above in perfect light:
What is thy time? eternity it is:
What state? attendance of each glorious sprite :
Thyself, thy place, thy dayes, thy state
Pass all the thoughts of powers create.
How shall I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above,
Ambitious soul: but which way should I filje?
Thou, Lord, art way and end: what wings have I?
Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love:
Oh, let these wings, that way alone
Present me to thy blissfull throne.
IMMORTALL babe, who this dear day
Didst change thine Heaven for our clay,
And didst with flesh thy godhead vail,
Eternal Son of God, all hail.
Shine, happy star; ye angels sing
Glory on high to Heaven's King:
Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch,
See Heaven come down to Bethleem's cratch.
Worship, ye sages of the east,
The King of gods in meanness drest:
O blessed maid, smile and adore
The God thy womb and armes have bore.
Star, angels, shepherds, and wise sages;
Thou virgin glory of all ages,
Restored frame of Heaven and Earth,
Joy in your dear Redeemer's birth.
It is remarkable that the few passages in the Works of 'his great Dramatist, which can be termed religious, are all favourites, (judging by the frequency of quotation) and of the highest poetical beauty. Would that he had written oftener, or always, in this vein!
Why, all the souls that are, were forfeit once,
And He that might the vantage best have took,
Found out the remedy. How would you be,
If He, which is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as you are? Oh! think on that:
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,
Like man new made.
THE quality of mercy is not strain'd;
It droppeth, as a gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed :
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shews the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings:
But mercy is above the sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then shew likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this-
That in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.
Cardinal Wolsey's Farewell to all his Greatness.
I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;
And, from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting.
I shall fall,
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now hath left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,
More pangs and fears than war or woman have;
And, when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Cardinal Wolsey's Speech to Cromwell.
CROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, tho' thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim'st at, be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell!
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king;
And, pr'ythee, lead me in :-
There, take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny: 'tis the king's: My robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!
WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING. BORN 1580. DIED 1640.
Principal Works:-Doomes-Day, Aurora, &c.
Invocation, at the beginning of Doomes-day.
THOU, of whose power (not reach'd by reasons height)
The sea a drop, we the' earth a mote may call :
And for whose trophees, stately to the sight,
The azure arke was rear'd (although too small)
And from the lampe of whose most glorious light
The Sun (a sparke) weake, for weake eyes did fall,
Breath thou a heavenly fury in my brest:
I sing the sabbath of eternall rest.
Though every where discern'd, no where confin'd,
O thou, whose feet the clouds (as dust) afford,
Whose voyce the thunder, and whose breath the winde,
Whose foot-stoole the' Earth, seate Heaven, works of
Guards, hosts of angels moving by thy minde,
Whose weapons, famine, tempest, pest, and sword;
My cloudy knowledge by thy wisdome cleare,
And by my weakenesse make thy power appeare.
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